


Salvation

by kingbooooo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunk Sex, Fitzier, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Alternating, Porn with Feelings, Self-indulgent smut, everyone is very cold, references to that scene in ep 1, sad drunk francis, sad lonely james, vests and bracers and boots oh my, yes that scene with the table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: “Do not needlessly taunt me, Francis,” James said, his voice thick, two spots of color on that smooth pale skin.Commander Fitzjames can’t get warm or keep a certain captain out of his thoughts, despite his best efforts.  Captain Crozier could use a drinking partner, but must make do with James.





	Salvation

Commander James Fitzjames

“Tell us about Birdshit Island, why don’t you, James?” Crozier was drunk when he said it, and his tongue loosened when he’d been drinking. That didn’t stop the sting. James stared up at the ceiling of his room, a glum, hard anger settling in his brain. It had been ages since he’d said it, but it still rattled around in his head like a loose tooth. Crozier had meant those words to hurt, not for the reason he intended. James’ shameful secret, the circumstances of his birth and his upbringing. It meant much to impress the other officers, to fit in, to never let that mask slip, never let them know he was a complete and utter fraud. His deception was a house built on sand and lies.

He rolled over, the bunk’s raised edge keeping him from falling out. The ships were starting to tip more perilously. James always felt a bit off-kilter among the other officers, but now his feelings were manifest, a bit of dramatic irony by the Almighty.

There was one officer in particular James wanted to impress. Francis Crozier, who could be unreasonably and unintentionally spiteful. How James hated that insouciant grin, the cocked eyebrow, the flip remark, the imperiousness that came with having actually explored the farthest reaches of man’s grasp. It made James feel so small.

Alone with his thoughts was a dangerous prospect. During the day, there were a thousand tasks demanding his attention, or there would be, were the ships not encased in ice. Still, he could find work, or make work. He was very good at making work. 

Now he was alone. He was hungry and cold, so cold. Always so cold. James worried he would never feel warmth again. He would dream of waking in his bed, warm and cozy, only to have the covers ripped from him, waking up shivering. It was near unbearable.

Yet not as unbearable as the familiar paths his thoughts roamed these long nights. Thoughts of Francis, awful Francis. A moody know-it-all drunk. James hated himself more than he hated Francis for those unspeakable thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself to sleep. He’d shaped his entire life by bending the universe to his will, sheer force and good luck. He could force himself to sleep, couldn’t he?

As it turned out, he could not. Frustrated, James threw the blanket back. A walk. That would do him good. He dressed silently, the dress shirt, the buttonholes fraying, trousers, braces, waistcoat, boots, gloves. James pushed aside the bicorn hat, that unwieldy thing, like the prow of a ship, finding the flat-topped peaked cap, putting it on over the knit wig to cover his ears, lastly donning his greatcoat, heavy, dense, James nearly starting to sweat under the layers. The Creature was about, but James found he didn’t much care. He wouldn’t have actively taken his life. That was a sin, of course, a mortal one. But if he were eaten, it wouldn’t be all that bad. At least he’d no longer be cold or troubled by the perverse places his mind went.

Squaring his shoulders, James Fitzjames climbed up to the deck, carefully stepped down the ladder, and set off across the ice.

\- - - 

Captain Francis Crozier

Francis was in his cups again, that buzzy warm feeling in his stomach doing little to mend his mood. He was supposed to come back a hero. That would show everyone. It would show Sophia he was worth marrying, even with his accent and his station.

It wouldn’t though, if he was honest. If that first expedition hadn’t, this one wouldn’t. If they made it back. It had been over a year since they’d departed. How was he still nursing this hurt? He was very tired and very far from home.

He found himself dressed. It was time for his constitutional. What time was it anyway? He checked his watch, his eyes too bleary to make out the hands. He wasn’t entirely sure why he went on these walks, but they seemed to help with his mind and the sharp edges even the drink couldn’t touch. Something about getting away from the ships, so full of restless spirits, living and dead, cleared his mind a trace. It was worth the risk if it gave him a moment of peace.

The clarity wasn’t always welcome, though. On the ship, one could get used to the slant of the deck, but out on the ice, the precarious nature of their existence was on full display. Francis wasn’t sure why the Creature didn’t come climbing up onto the ship and tear them all to shreds. He was quite sure it could, even with their guns and explosives. It had already come aboard once. Perhaps it would be better, he thought grimly, if the Creature did ravage the ships. Then they wouldn’t have to wait until spring for this slow death to take them. Francis had an idea of what he must do, but every time he sat down to work out the logistics, his head hurt and he reached for a bottle. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would work things out. 

At least Francis could say that he had put up a fight. He shouldn’t have lost his temper that day, pounding on the table like a barrister, but he’d had just about enough of Commander Fitzjames entirely. Melodramas, indeed. Francis smiled, remembering that look on Fitzjames’ face, the satisfaction of putting him back on his heel, watching him work his jaw and blink stupidly, trying to think of something clever to say and finding none. Francis had been pleased, but only for a moment, before remorse swept over him. All he’d been trying to do was knock some sense into them, any of them. It hadn’t worked. And now that he was in charge, he was worried that it was far too late. Franklin had damned them all, that arrogant man.

Francis didn’t like to admit his jealously of his second. He was handsome and slender, with a full head of chestnut hair, styled with that wave, like a pretty little dandy. Francis’ hair was starting to recede. He touched his head. _Starting. Ha._ If they made it back, Fitzjames could marry any woman he wanted, no one daring to say he wasn’t the right sort for their family.

He was up on the deck, exchanging pleasantries with Lieutenant Little.

“Fine afternoon for a walk, sir.”

“Is it, Edward?” Francis replied. “Hard to tell what’s up and what’s down during this part of winter. Any sign of the Creature?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep an eye out. I’ll be over to Erebus and back again before you know it.” Francis was nimble enough to get down onto the ice, walking carefully, stiff-legged, leaning forward to put more weight on the balls of his feet than if he were on terra firma. It made it easier if he started to slip. Hands in pockets, he began to walk.

It really was beautiful. If it wasn’t, this existence so far from anything would be entirely unbearable, the bone-deep cold and the loneliness, enough to drive one mad. That horrid stilted discourse he’d endured with Franklin was somehow now preferable to sparring with Fitzjames. 

They were going to have to abandon the ships. That was becoming more and more apparent. And he would have to, he must stop drinking. Completely. Just, just not today.

It was quiet except for the sounds of the ice as it cracked and slipped along itself, sometimes nearly musical. A soft creaking sound underfoot accompanied him. Across the way, Erebus loomed, slanting not quite as much as Terror. Francis stopped. He could see movement. Too small to be the Creature, and he’d ordered that all the men stay aboard unless absolutely necessary. He squinted into the darkness.

It was Commander James Fitzjames. What a way to ruin a perfectly good state of inebriation.

Francis paused. He should be more charitable. Fitzjames wasn’t responsible for Francis’ current state, or for the crew’s. He really ought to be nicer. He set his jaw, sighing, and walking forwards. Towards Fitzjames.

\- - - 

James

James knew it was Crozier before he could recognize the face; he walked like a block of wood. James smiled to himself, raising a hand in greeting.

“Commander Fitzjames.” Francis’ voice had that slightly thick quality that he got after a glass or three, his accent stronger, that accent that held him down and back. How James would very much like that voice, he imagined, smelling of booze, warm in his ear-

 _Christ._ This was unnatural, sinful. He felt himself die a bit on the inside.

“Captain Crozier. How fare our ladies?” He gestured to the ships.

“Worse in my estimation.” Francis paused, a slight smile crossing his face. “How has no one made a jape about our ships looking like lushingtons?” 

James smiled as well.

“They may have, but out of earshot.” He frowned, seeing realization cross Francis’ face as well.

“Probably comparing them to me. Favorably, I hope,” Francis groused. “Well. They’re not wrong.” He looked back towards Terror. “Interest you in a drink, Fitzjames?”

James demurred. He needed to. He had work to do, go over the stores again, see how long they would last. He had a full library of books. He’d read most of them. Could start an old favorite again. Anything to keep his mind busy, keep him away from Terror any more than he needed to be, away from Francis and fuel for his daydreams.

“Come on now. Don’t leave me to drink alone. I get particularly morose when I’m alone. Not that being stuck here helps my mood. Don’t be a spoilsport.” He leaned in. “You can tell me about getting shot by the Chinese. I know you love that story.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

“All right then.”

“Capital!” Francis clapped him on the shoulder.

\- - - 

Francis

Francis did not really want to hear the story about James getting shot again, or that story about the shit-covered rock off Namibia. It always felt like a bit of a show. Weren’t they all just putting on a show for the other officers? Franklin was dead. They hadn’t gotten their dress uniforms out in months. Maybe he’d get a real story out of him. He hungered for a good story.

James was moving a little stiffly, from the cold most likely. He’d been oddly formal with Francis, even after Franklin’s death. Maybe a glass would loosen him up.

“What do you have? To drink, I mean.” James was hanging his coat up next to his hat and wig, pulling off his gloves.

“Same thing I’ve been drinking for the past six months.” Francis pulled out an extra tumbler, setting it down, watching it slide across the table with a practiced eye. He held out a hand as James started towards it.

“Won’t fall off.” He poured a few fingers into the glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” James echoed, clinking glasses, his smile faltering a bit. “What, what are we toasting, exactly?”

Francis frowned. What were they toasting? What did they have to be thankful for?

“Let’s start with something simple. We are here and we are alive.”

“For how long, though? The Creature could come back at any time. We’re underestimated our food reserves. We’re trapped here indefinitely.”

“Oh, come off it. God could strike us all dead at any moment.” Francis couldn’t help letting his frustration sneak into his voice. “We’re among the living, and that is worth toasting, is it not?”

James gave a small smile. “I suppose.” He looked younger, gentler.

“What else?” Francis took a swallow.

It was James’ turn to frown, those long deep parentheses marring that perfect face. Jealousy roiled in Francis. That ridiculously perfect face. What would it be like to walk around with that face? Wouldn’t have to rely on one’s charms at all to try to convince people to like you.

“I suppose…our families back home. I assume they’re all right. To them.” James raised a glass.

“To friends far from us. May they be warm and safe.” Francis took a seat. James sat as well, studying the pattern cut into the glass.

“To the sun coming back up,” Francis said.

“Will it, Captain Crozier?”

Francis looked up. James was being serious, his eyes sad.

“Of course it will. It did before. But only if we make a sacrifice to an angry arctic god.” He grinned, feeling the rush of the alcohol, his fingers and head tingling.

James rolled his eyes. “Always a flair for the dramatic,” he said curtly.

If he’d been sober, he would have brushed it off.

“A flair for the dramatic?” Francis could feel his face heating up. “Do you hear yourself, Commander James Fitzjames?” He enunciated the words, too much, the way he did when he was trying to convince someone he was less intoxicated than he was. “Your tale about getting shot by the Chinese? ‘The whole view smelled of roast duck.’ Ready for London’s stage, you are.”

He knew he should not have said it as he words left his mouth. He hadn’t meant it to have quite the punch, watching James’ face crumple, for a moment, before rearranging itself.

“Sorry. I-sorry.” Francis looked down so he didn’t have to watch James. A strange feeling was settling in his chest. He knew it, but he hadn’t felt it in ages. A touch of heartbreak.

\- - - 

James

God, he could be cruel. If only Francis’ cutting words could make him feel less of that foul, base feeling. Francis was sorry, his eyes going dull with realization.

James tossed the rest of the drink back, feeling it burn, that artificial warmth. It would stave off the worst of the chill as he walked back to Erebus. And if he was eaten, well, he wouldn’t have to worry about his unquiet mind any longer.

He looked over at Francis, his pockmarked face flushed, eyes watery. James would very much like to touch that rough skin, stroke a finger along his brow, down that long nose, to those thin, mocking lips, down to the buttons…

No. He shook his head. _No._ Even with that command to himself, he felt his body betray him, his cock hardening. Lord be merciful, this could not be. He needed to leave.

James set his glass down, hard. He stood, trying to adjust to both the tilt of the floor and the alcohol hitting him. He turned on his heel to get his coat, stumbling forward.

Francis moved with a quickness James would not have predicted, a hand under his elbow. Unfortunately for both, Francis’ reflexes did not mitigate the slope of the floor, and somehow, James was falling, his knees connecting very hard with the floor, his elbow hitting something softer, Francis’ midsection, he guessed, given the soft exhaled _oof_ he heard.

“Get off!” Francis was on top of him, scrabbling backwards. The pain in his knees brought a modicum of clarity, the situation absolutely absurd. Francis was apologizing. James shook his head, propping himself up on one elbow, looking up. He started laughing. It was all utterly ridiculous. He was laughing, and he was crying.

\- - - 

Francis

Francis was startled by the laughter. He sat back, looking at James, bewildered. James’ laugh, God, it was lovely. And then, for some reason, there were tears. Only a little. What had he done?

“I’m sorry, James, I was trying to help-”

“James. You called me James.”

Francis bristled slightly. “Commander Fitzjames.”

“No. No. You can call me James.” He sniffled, smiling sadly as he wiped his eye. 

“I’m just so cold, Crozier. I’m always so goddamned cold. I want the sun to be up and I want this ice to thaw and I want to be heading home and I want to be warm, goddamn it, all over, not just the places the wind and damp can’t reach.” He drew in a breath, pausing, looking as though he was trying to get his thoughts in order.

 _I should do more._ He was Francis’ second, and he had not done right by him, not by any stretch of the imagination. James looked young and small. And he was cold.

He reached out a hand.

“I’m sorry, James.”

James’ fingers slipped into his, a spark of warmth traveling down his arm. Another tear traced down James’ cheek. Francis found he wanted to wanted to reach out and brush it away. He was sorry, deeply. He couldn’t get James home right now. He couldn’t make the ice melt, and he couldn’t get the sun to come back any faster.

But he could get him warm, or at least warmer. Francis owed him that, he did. He tugged gently on James’ arm.

“You want to be warm,” he said, James’ puzzlement melting into understanding, his eyes still slightly glassy from the tumble. He sat up slowly, wincing.

“Captain Crozier-”

“Francis.”

“Francis, I…” James hesitated, his face flashing recognition, then anger, then sorrow, all in those perfectly formed brows. His jaw clenched.

Francis opened his hand, letting James’ fingers slip out. James’ head snapped up, his hand tightening. Francis tugged again.

This time, James followed. 

He folded him under his arm. His head came to rest on Francis’ chest, that dark hair nearly close enough to touch.

The drink. That was the only explanation. Or mass delusion. They were all so deeply starved for human contact. His mind flashed back to home, a hand slipping into his, a stolen kiss while Franklin was out for the afternoon. At the time, those moments had felt so triumphant and delirious. So very long ago. He was surprised he even had the capacity to want something like that again. He closed his eyes, hard. He was just keeping James warm.

Then he felt James sigh and curl incrementally into him.

\- - - 

James

His elbows smarted, his knees a dull ache. And Francis’ arm was around him. He exhaled.

Francis did smell of booze. He was probably perspiring alcohol. He also smelled of leather, and he didn’t have that sour tang of unwashed bodies. He was keeping himself clean. So James wasn’t the only one waging that losing war.

He should leave, now, put his coat on and go back to Erebus, throw himself onto his knees and beg God for forgiveness. It was the only way to purge his mind of the ideas, ideas about Francis, wild, awful ideas, his heart beating faster.

One of his hands was still entwined with Francis’. The other was clutched to his chest, fingers curled in. He dared not open it, afraid of where his hand would end up. James was still crying, as quietly as he could. He felt a hand on his hair. He tensed.

“James,” Francis said quietly.

If he looked up, he’d be lost, utterly lost. This was wrong, but they were so far from God’s light here. Who would know? He felt himself moving his head, his eyes betraying him. Francis had such an odd look on his face. His thumb, rough, was wiping away a tear from James’ cheek, tingling where it touched his face.

James sat up, his face very close to Francis’. 

“I forget myself,” he said quietly, although he made no move to get away.

Francis smiled. “As do I, it seems.”

James smiled too. He closed his eyes, his nose touching Francis’, James brushing his lips to his, unable to stop himself.

For a moment, Francis did nothing. Then his grip on James’ shoulder tightened, and he pressed his mouth against James, letting go of his hand. Heat bloomed in James’ chest. Dimly, he was aware of their bodies and limbs rearranging. He was across Francis’ lap, his arms tentatively slipping around his shoulders.

James pulled away.

“We shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I need to get back. And you, your state-”

Francis kissed him again.

“What you should do is very different than what you wish to do, James. I know very much what I wish, but if you must…” Francis’ hands loosened a bit. He was grinning, that smug, impish grin.

“I just want to be warm, Francis.” He ducked his head. That thumb was under his chin, pulling it up. Francis’ eyes were dark in the dim light, a wide, deep darkness that swept over James, this darkness that Francis carried with him, buried deep inside, always. It was enough to break the heart.

Francis leaned in, tentatively touching his lips again. All of James’ deviant thoughts, evil, impure, foul, all of them.

They were never as good as this.

\- - - 

Francis

He sighed into James, who was occupied with opening Francis’ mouth with his own. James was trembling slightly, from what, it didn’t matter really. Neat and proper Commander James Fitzjames was kissing him. He found it was most pleasant, claiming James’ mouth with his own.

He broke away, needing air, his chest tight. His lips traced along James’ cheek, his hands running through his hair, which was just as soft as he’d imagined. He found the spot under James’ ear, a spot that he thought James would like.

He was correct, hearing a low moan.

Francis kissed harder, not hard enough to leave a mark, but just hard enough. James shifted on his lap, his reason for discomfort obvious, Francis’ hand skimming the top of James’ trousers as he went to put his hand around his waist. 

The hand strayed back there, unbidden, James’ breath stuttering. James was kissing him again, open-mouthed, deep, with a fervor Francis would not have expected. Francis reached down with both hands, fumbling at the button and placket at James’ trousers, a hand slipping inside. He paused, his fingers at the soft skin of James’ midsection. 

“Sir,” James got out. His breathing was labored, matching Francis, who needed to be out of his clothes and soon. Francis didn’t want to rush this though, this delicate torment too fragile.

“Do not needlessly taunt me, Francis,” James said, his voice thick, two spots of color on that smooth pale skin.

Francis smiled.

“You do forget yourself, second.” His hand ventured farther, finding James half erect, rolling a thumb over him, James biting his lip.

It was quiet except for the sound of the wind, the ship creaking, and the blood thundering in Francis’ ears. He bit back a groan as he felt himself harden, his cock pressing uncomfortably against his pants.

This wouldn’t do, here, on the floor, where they’d fallen. Despite that, James was undoing the buttons on Francis’ vest, carefully unhooking his pocket watch before burying his face at Francis’ neck, his lips along the front, under the collar, like a brand, Francis’ skin aflame every place James touched those lips.

“Up in the chair,” he got out. James was still worrying along his throat. “Now,” a touch of urgency in his voice.

“Sir,” James said. He had a lopsided grin as he untangled himself, running a hand over his face, his lower lip reddened, getting his legs under him, wobbling a bit like a child on ice skates.

“Steady.” Francis’ hands grasped those slim hips, pushing him back to the chair, pushing him down, a bit harder than he intended, a mumbled apology, his fingers unbuttoning the waistcoat buttons, hands pulling the braces off, undoing the shirt, straying down to the trousers again, his eyes drinking James in, half-dressed and fully undone.

“Please.” James’ voice was quiet urgency. It was all he needed, resting his hands on James’ thighs, leaning on him for support as he knelt, pushing those knees open.

“Forgive me if I do not entirely know what I do.” Francis was pulling James out, his cock half-hard, a marvelous thing. He wrapped his fingers around it, James squirming.

“Someone could hear.” James’ voice was laced with desperation.

“Then you should be very,” Francis gripped him slightly harder. “Very.” He sat up, running a thumb along the tip. “Quiet.” Nothing else to be done but sit up and put his lips around James, being rewarded with a soft moan.

It was exquisite, feeling James harden in his mouth. Francis’ knees started to hurt, a reminder that he wasn’t a young man anymore. He found he didn’t care much. This, this was more important. Francis, remembering what a girl back home had done when he was much younger, dipped his head lower, tasting James, who swore quietly.

“Do you intend to kiss me with that mouth, Commander Fitzjames?”

“I intend to do much more than kiss you, but,” James sighed heavily. “Please.”

He grinned up at James, tugging his trousers down, Francis’ fingers gripping James’ thigh as he took him back into his mouth, farther, feeling a hand resting on the back of his head. It was intoxicating. Kneeling before James, all this power, to make him sigh and swear and shift, was his. He dipped lower, as far as he could go before backing off.

“You’ll be the death of me, Francis.”

\- - - 

James

James shouldn’t have been surprised at Francis’ ability to tease him, that tart tongue working along the underside of his cock. His hips bucked up involuntarily, Francis gagging on him.

“No,” Francis said firmly, his hands back at James’ hips, pushing him back into the chair. “None of that.”

“Sorry, Francis. I-” He was cut off by a wave of pleasure washing over him, settling, hot in his belly as Francis was on him, on all of him, his rough hands circling him, up and down to match his lips. The sight was so profane, an assault on all that he knew as good and proper and correct, and yet he couldn’t look away. He settled for watching him through slitted eyes, gasping for air, one hand gripping the arm of the chair, the other curling and uncurling uselessly behind Francis’ head. His heels pressed into the floor. Any harder and they might go straight through the wood.

He swore again, his tongue tripping over itself, excited utterances spilling out.

“More, yes, more,” he mumbled, feeling Francis fully envelop him, his lips flushed dark, drawing back, focusing on the sensitive part just below the crown. His grip grew stronger, his mouth bobbing faster. James threaded a hand into Francis’ hair, not aiding him so much as added support, his legs wooden, his toes flexing in his boots. A hand curled and tugged gently on his balls.

“Christ, fuck.” He could barely hear himself through this fog that had settled on his head, that tight pinprick of pleasure in his core contracting.

“Francis!” That pinprick flashed out, letting him give Francis the barest moment of warning before he came, ecstasy crashing over him like a tidal wave, like the feeling of watching the sun come back, the sensation of being on the prow of Erebus as it tore through the ice, Francis greedily taking in every last drop. James stared up at the ceiling as he returned to his body, smiling, his hand tracing along the edge of the armrest.

Then it was there, the shame, crashing back down. He looked over, Francis rinsing his mouth out with alcohol, spitting it down his latrine.

“Captain Crozier, I, this, I.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “This. I cannot.” James was stuffing himself back into his pants, pulling them back up, his hands groping at the braces, standing unsteadily.

He was in Francis’ arms, fighting weakly.

“James.” Francis’ voice was soft. “Please don’t go.” James felt himself untense, his breathing slowing. His head dropped to Francis’ shoulder. He was so tired. The cold, the loss of morale, the strange malady from their food. But Francis, drunk, arrogant Francis, here, in this perilous, terrible place, made him feel safe, alive, happy. There couldn’t be anything sinful about that.

He brought his mouth to Francis’, silently thanking him with his lips, putting a hand on Francis’ chest and pushing him back towards the bed.

“When the sun went down that first winter, I thought it would not come back up again,” James said. He was unbuttoning Francis’ shirt buttons, one by one, bending in to kiss Francis’ neck. With his shirt off, he could see a galaxy of freckles across Francis’ shoulders and arms. “It’s quite silly, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. It’s entirely reasonable. Ireland points her toes towards Rome, but all of my family keeps some variant of an old Yule tradition to drive the dark away. We wouldn’t do them if we didn’t think they had some kind of power. What are you doing, James?”

James looked up guiltily. He’d been kissing each freckle, blushing.

Francis laughed, taking a guess. “There’s too many. If you don’t cease, we will be here all winter. I tried to count them once and stopped after I reached five hundred.”

“Our own way to drive the darkness back.” James wanted to touch every inch of pale skin with his lips.

“I’ve a better idea,” Francis said, his eyes heavy, pushing him onto his back, wrestling his boots and trousers off entirely. Realization dawned on James, his brain racing from fear to excitement, to shame, again. Francis was to take him like a woman. His body clenched, and he felt himself growing hard again. He looked up.

“Only if you wish,” Francis said.

He didn’t want to disappoint Francis. But that wasn’t his only thought. He pulled his shirt off, tossing it aside, sitting up to kiss Francis again, a hand around his shoulder. 

Francis smiled, pulling his boots off, his hands stroking James again, smiling as James hardened again, pushing him back down onto the bed. James bit his lip as Francis stepped out of his pants, his eyes widening as he saw Francis emerge.

James closed his eyes, feeling the scratch of the sheet under his bare back, the creek of the ship, that trace of drink that had been on Francis’ lips, the shift of weight on the bunk. He was an explorer, goddamn it all, and this he wanted to discover. Francis pushed his leg off the edge of the bed. Now he was at the hull, now he was breaching it, James clenching until he felt a hand at his cock, stroking it once, twice, and Francis was in him.

Francis had stopped moving. James’ breathing was shallow, barely getting any air in.

“James? Am I hurting you?”

Captain Francis Crozier, being kind. It was enough, in this blasted heath of ice, where tenderness was a weakness. James felt a tear creep out.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Francis say, withdrawing slowly.

“No.” He put a hand up to that beautifully freckled shoulder. “I need you.”

\- - - 

Francis

Francis’ heart nearly stopped when he saw James’ lips draw back in a grimace, and it probably did when the younger man started to cry. But James was pulling him down, and he was sinking into him, and his heart was beating far too fast. The bunk was too small for anything more than careful, slow movement, but it made it better for James, who was shifting beneath him, bracing one long leg on the back wall of the bunk, and it made it better for Francis, driving him slowly mad as he savored every slow thrust, taking, and taking, and taking.

It was sinful, the thought only making him harder. God had forsaken them. They must needs make their own salvation, and it was here, in this small tilted bunk that Francis found it. James was rolling his hips up to meet Francis, erect again. Francis spared a fleeting reflection on the virility of youth even though James wasn’t that much younger than him. He was down on one elbow, James’ sighs in his ear as he fucked, _yes fucked,_ touch-starved, pliant James, his body clenching around him. It must be nearly painful to James to be that hard with only the slight friction of Francis against him.

He was chasing that release, thrusting deeper, earning a punctuated note of surprise from James, stopping until he heard a soft “keep going, yes, there,” nearly finishing inside James on the spot. James’ hands were curling tight and painfully into Francis’ shoulders and back.

Francis was close, so close, his hips picking up speed, James’ noises encouraging him on, his mind blank except for his need. Francis fucked him, one stroke, two, three, everything hard and sharp and focused.

“Fuck, James!” He thrust, pulling out, finishing, that need an explosion onto James’ thigh, a constellation of stars across his vision, that sweet release all could have ever wanted or needed.

He sank back down onto James, who was twisting beneath him, trying to find his own relief, his cock hard against Francis’ side. James’ hand sneaked between them, Francis joining him, letting James move him up and down, James’ back arching into him as he groaned into Francis’ neck, over and over and over, his teeth scraping along his shoulder as Command James Fitzjames came, again, this time against Francis’ stomach. He collapsed, spent, his eyes glassy, closing slowly as Francis admired the ruin he’d brought upon James, kissing his nose, his temple, his lips.

“Are you warmer now, Commander Fitzjames?”

James smiled and nodded, and Francis found that his heart was cracking.

\- - - 

James

Francis was gently cleaning him off. He opened one eye to Francis taking a drink before climbing back into the bunk. It was too small, but with James on his side, Francis curled around him, they could fit, just. He could let sleep claim him, Francis’ arm around his waist, his nose pressed gently into his neck. 

He needed answers, though, rolling over slowly, careful of his elbows and knees, facing Francis. 

“Will we make it out?” he asked. Francis’ eyes looked away. James knew he was weighing whether to lie. If he lied, it would hurt far worse.

Francis sighed, looking back up at James. “I do not know. We are stuck, for now. It is a very long way to the river and then to Great Slave Lake. And our food is bad. I don’t know, James.”

James frowned. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Tell me how bad it could get.”

Francis reached up a hand, touching James’ cheek with the back of his fingers, tracing his cheekbone.

“I’ve a better idea. Why don’t you tell me about when you were captain of Birdshit Island?” He paused, his finger circling the bullet scar on James’ left arm. “Or about this.”

This time when Francis said it, James smiled, lacing his fingers into Francis’. He cleared his throat, pressing his lips together.

“Well, Captain Crozier, do you remember what roast duck smells like?”

**Author's Note:**

> 7/8 - fixed a few errors
> 
> Set somewhere in Episode 4. Please excuse any stray typos.
> 
> This is my second piece of published fanfic and both have characters wearing suspenders. Coincidence? Maybe I just really like braces. Too much? Who can really say?
> 
> Hope you liked it!


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